A WORLD OF BEAUTIFUL CONTRADICTIONS

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I sit in my comfy suburban home, curled up on my cozy couch, watching cities burn on the tv hanging in front of me. I feel no fear for my life, the lives of my children or my community. I am completely unaffected in every way. I am white and sheltered and privileged. I am a coward.

My heart breaks for men and women who fear for their lives, the lives of their children and the lives of their community because of their skin color. I am angry with those who are angry, unwilling to accept that the world they live in, that was built on their backs, doesn’t belong to them any more now than it did when their people was forced to create it. Their voices mean little more now than they did when they wore shackles. Their lives are still a small price to pay for the comfort of white men.

I know this truth, I hate this truth, and I mourn this truth. When it is in the news. When someone happens to catch a video of the daily hatred, and it is in a news cycle again, and I am reminded of the daily hate and struggle, I am enraged. As soon as my social media is quiet again, I am busy with my own struggles, and I pay it no attention.

I am privileged.

What’s worse than all of this: I am silent. I retweet a #blacklivesmatter tweet, because none of my immediate circle follows my twitter, and it is safe. I share someone’s whitewashed meme on my instagram, because it makes just enough of a statement to say that I’m not ignorant, but it still remains safe. I send heart emojis and love to those I know are struggling, because it’s private and unoffensive, and it remains safe.

My black friends might occasionally call me caring and sympathetic. Calling me an ally would be a stretch. An advocate I am not. I am lukewarm at best, and a coward.

I know I have family, and friends who are like family, who roll their eyes at me when I make a statement in support of #blacklivesmatter. They may respond with an #alllivesmatter or “but they…first” retort. They will judge me and argue with me and possibly reject me. I don’t want to rock the boat. I don’t want to make waves in a relationship that already has strains. I don’t want to take a risk. I don’t want to offend. I don’t want to…not be safe.

I have a choice of whether or not I’m “safe.” I AM PRIVILEGED.

All of this, those first 439 words, they disgust me. If black men and women can walk around this world fearing for their lives because they are driving down the street black, I can grow up and at least stand tall with them and say some truth. This is my truth:

This is not okay. It never was and it never will be. Stop making murder okay. Stop shaming a man that tried to protest peacefully and dared to offend your precious national anthem. Stop pretending that it somehow disrespects our troops and what America stands for. You know that’s not true. Stop shaming “angry black women” for standing up for their husbands and sons and begging for their lives to stop being disposable. Stop making excuses for kids and men that are committing PETTY CRIMES (at most) and are being killed in the street while white men stand on government steps with assault rifles in the faces of law enforcement. Stop making black on black crime an excuse to execute black people in the streets. Stop saying All Lives Matter until ALL lives actually matter. Stop saying Blue Lives Matter until Bad Cops stop executing black people in the streets and “Good Cops” don’t do shit about it. Stop blaming desperate people for riots and looting when that is not the point. Stop focusing on all of the things “they” are doing wrong so that you don’t have to look at the fact that you are perpetuating hate. Stop saying if “they” would just listen to the cops and not resist they wouldn’t get shot. Stop saying “they” should just follow the law. Stop making excuses for murder. Stop saying “I’m not privileged, I’ve had struggles, too. when your hard life has nothing to do with your skin color. Stop making excuses for hate.

Stop silencing vocal white people with your intimidation and shame because we dare to stand up for what is right. Stop making fun of me when I stand for what is right. Stop making me feel like I’m sacrificing relationship with you by caring about people being murdered in the streets in broad daylight.

Stop. Perpetuating. Hate.

I’m not playing along anymore. I’m done backing down when it gets hard or I get “scared.”

Like this:

If you’ve listened to this week’s podcast, you know this shit hit the fan around here this week.

This mama snapped. Words were said. Hands were thrown. Tears were cried. Shame was HAD.

You know the old saying, “If you think life is hard try raising a mini version of yourself during a pandemic?” No? That’s not an old saying? Well it fucking is now. Only my mini version is bigger than I am now and maybe more ruthless. God I do love her so.

We are living in some really weird times. Seriously, think about it. Have you ever even in your life imagined that you’d be forced to stay home for weeks on end, not even be allowed to work or go to school or do whatever in hell you do, oh and by the way, you may or may not be drawing a paycheck to pay for your life?! No?! Yah, no. Me either. Never crossed my mind. It does things to us. It makes us crazy(er). And it’s just hard as shit.

But you guys, we’re doing it. We’re surviving all this. We’re growing and figuring it out. We might even come out of this better people. But it’s sure as shit going to be messy in the process. Right now…my life, my brain, MY EMOTIONS are really messy. Somehow though, it feels like part of the process. Part of the becoming. I’ve got no idea where this ship is sailing, and I just feel along for the ride.

Part of this process for me is overcoming a lot of self-doubt and a lot of shame. There’s one thing I know for sure: if I didn’t have my people in my life- the ones that get into the shit with me and help me find my way out- things would not be good for me right now. Not good at all.

Please find the Everything’s (not) Fine podcast wherever you listen to podcasts. I’d love to share this part of my world with you.

After years of almosts, so close and too many empty promises, I’m facing the hard truth that I am no longer a blogger. At least, not in the same way I once was. I love you and all of the things you’ve given me over the years, but I have to move on now. I guess this is it. I’ll never forget you.

My new love…is a shiny new world called the podcast, and I love her with all my heart.

Readers, long time friends and supporters that for some reason still get emails when I post something on here, I want you to know that the new adventure I’m on is amazing and I love it and I want you to love it as much as I do. It’s the breath of fresh air I’ve been so desperate for. It’s everything I need right now, and I hope it’s something you might want, too. This space will likely become the area I post our weekly podcast show notes and other things that are inspired by that show, but I’m hoping it will also be a place I still escape to for the occasional blog. No empty promises, though.

For now, I want to share this with you. This is the introduction episode to my new podcast called Everything’s (not) Fine, which is basically just an audible version of everything this blog ever was, in conversation form with my dear friend and co-host, Nicole. If you follow me on social media you may have already learned about it, or even listened to an episode, but I did not want even one person that has been a part of this part of my life not to hear it.

Thank you for being such a part of my life for the past thirteen years. You have literally saved me more times than you know. I love you.

Like this:

My relationship with my husband didn’t begin in the most conventional way. We met in what was basically a religious cult, and grew to be good friends over time. Around five years later, he began to show some interest romantically, but I wasn’t feeling it yet. Another couple of years later, I finally came to my senses and we were married a year later. I definitely love my husband dearly, but I’m not what one would consider an overly touchy-feely soft and gooey person. I’m practical. I’m not all that into PDA and I’m definitely not a lovey romantic. I feel bad for him, because he is definitely a romantic in his way, but our relationship has always been one of best friends at the foundation with some romance sprinkled on top every now and again.

Way, way back in the beginning he began singing “our song” to me. Actually, he sang three lines of our song to me and then it would always trail off into humming. I’d never heard the song, and hand to god, I’ve always thought he just made it up. He’s always insisted it was a real song, but I had never heard anything that sounded remotely like it, and I just thought he was mixing up something he’d heard once upon a time and put his own spin to it- which was equally great to me. It’s a sweet little tune and early in our marriage he’d sing or hum it to me all the time. Now, it’s usually when he grabs me in the kitchen and slow dances me around or if he knows I need a little chuckle. Do you SEE what a loving romantic I’m married to and how it’s so sad that I’m such a cold fish?! Poor sap.

I’ve been noticing that as we’re getting older and the kids are growing up and life is settling down more, I definitely have become more sentimental and maybe even a little gooey – if only every great once in a while. This week; however, I fear I may have fallen head over heels totally, madly in love with this man. Smitten. Sixteen and a half years later, and he finally got to me.

A few weeks ago we were driving and all of a sudden I heard a very familiar tune. It was the song. I couldn’t believe it. I was in shock! He just kept laughing at me and telling me he knew it was real. I was in such disbelief that I didn’t even listen to all the words, we just kept laughing and it was honestly just so surreal. Earlier this week, I flippantly mentioned that I wish I could hear the song again because I wanted to hear the actual words (still thinking he’d made up his own version, haha!)

Yesterday I was in the shower, and I hear him come in and start setting up his music. He always listens to music when he’s in the shower, and I never do. For a split second I was giving an eye roll that he was messing up my quiet time with his music. Then, I heard the tune. I opened the curtain to see him give me a little twinkle-eyed grin, and we both chuckled. I stood in my shower listening to that song with tears streaming down my face. It’s like that song was written for us. He’s been carrying around this song in his heart for seventeen years, and I’m just hearing it for the first time. I can’t explain why, but it’s exactly what I needed right now.

Our marriage has always been rock solid. We had to fight for it, and we’ve certainly had our share of battles to overcome over the years. They’ve always brought us closer, and we have always been best friends but sometimes the lovey romance gets lost in the shuffle. Hearing that song, and knowing that this is what he’s been singing to me in his heart all these years has left me in a puddle. It’s nothing short of a gift to my soul right now. Even after seventeen years, our love can be renewed and deepened by one simple act- one simple song. That’s probably the best gift I’ve ever been given. I didn’t even know I needed it, but it’s like a cold drink of water on the hottest day- just the fresh start that I needed for this season of our life.

Thanks to some guy named Sammy Kershaw for singing our song.

(I know that this is just a mush-fest display of affection that is super out of character for me, but I just needed to get it out there.)

Like this:

In an effort to undo approximately 12 years of all but ruining my children in the area of personal responsibility, I have recently launched Operation Grow Up. Don’t tell them. They don’t know about it yet. They think I’ve just turned into an evil witch determined to destroy their lives.

Okay, in all seriousness, my 16 and 13 year olds might be a teeny-tiny bit behind what some would advise for personal motivation and self-discipline. If there is one thing I am not going to release onto the world it’s people who can’t take care of themselves in a pinch. So, this summer we are going to work a little extra on some life-skills development. I’m already equal parts looking forward to it and dreading the ever-living shit out of it. I’m looking forward to imparting my vast wisdom of how to actually survive at life, and I am loathing the idea of how much push-back and whining is about to ensue. I’m sure some of the activities are going to be borderline fun for one of them, but I’m positive the fun isn’t going to last more than 5 minutes.

Here’s some things I’m planning to work on:For the 16 (who plans to get a summer job, but at the very least will be babysitting for cash)

Apply and interview for jobs

Open and manage a checking account (yikes. I’m most scared of this one.)

Develop a personal budget and *fingers crossed* actually follow it

Learn to change a tire and other car/driver related things that I’m still working on

Email etiquette – practiced by taking over communication with college contacts!

For the 13 (who, up to this point, hardly cleans his room and unloads the dishwasher with any regular success. ugh.)

Like this:

I became a helicopter mom in the first grade. Okay, obviously I did not become a mother in the first grade, and we all know there were no helicopter moms in the 80’s, but the foundation was definitely laid that year. My destiny was determined by a series of unfortunate events and a skewed sense of reality.

You know how you have those weird memories of your childhood that are just a perfect snapshot, detailing every tiny nuance? If you ask me to provide that amount of detail about what I had for breakfast just this morning it would be impossible. Ask about the first grade Christmas gift exchange party of 1983, and I’ve got you. I think I’ve recounted parts of this story before, but my perspective on it has certainly changed over the past few years.

My first grade year started with Ms. Pam. She must have been pretty pregnant already, because by Christmas she was out on maternity leave. Miss Kelly came in as a long-term sub, and I’m just now realizing that these are the only two teachers I ever had that went by their first names. It must have been their youth. A short time before the holidays, I’m sure there was some announcement about a Christmas party complete with gift exchange. I remember drawing names for a fellow student to buy for, and the rule of a maximum price tag on the gift. I’m 99% sure my mom and I did the shopping the night before the party. I have no idea what I bought my classmate, or even Miss Kelly, but the gift for Ms. Pam is etched in my brain forever.

We wandered the aisles of Walmart for quite a while, searching for the perfect gift for Ms. Pam. I remember my mom asking me repeatedly how much we were allowed to spend on the gifts and my response being somewhere between $.50 and $5. I don’t know. It was certainly difficult to find something suitable in that price range. I’m sure I had the details wrong, whatever the number I came up with, because I just remember it being quite the ordeal to find that perfect gift. Finally I found a tiny red candle that was in a white ceramic dish and smelled strongly of cinnamon. I think it had a lid with a heart or angel on top of it, but that part’s a little fuzzy. I remember being really excited to take it to the party and bestow it upon my teacher. I think she was the first pregnant woman I really knew, and she was magical to me.

The next day at the party, once all the gifts were exchanged and kids were bouncing around on sugar highs, I overheard the two teachers talking in concerned teacher voices. Being the ever curious child I was, I listened in to the conversation without their knowing. After hearing bits and pieces of their chat, I realized they were talking about me and the gifts I had brought to the exchange. Ms. Pam had received some very generous gifts, that even my six year old brain had deduced were NOT within the set price range- a handmade baby blanket being the one that stands out most. They were questioning my homelife and wondering what was going on and the stability of my family.

Well into my adulthood, whenever I recalled this memory I would get the same pit in my stomach. I felt embarrassed- less than the other kids, and that same red hot feeling of shame would wash over me. I hated those teachers. I hated them for making me feel like my gift was less than the others that they received. I hated that my mom wasn’t at that party when so many of the other moms were, and that I was left to just feel those feelings all alone. Later, I hated that she didn’t know the details and expected a six year old to know and how that ended up causing me a lot of hurt. And I still hate the smell of cinnamon candles.

A few years ago, when I looked back on that conversation between two teachers, I realized that they weren’t gossipping about a kid who couldn’t afford to bring a decent gift for the teacher. They were having one of those conversations that concerned adults do when something seems off about a kid. They weren’t aware that I had misunderstood the rules of the exchange and told my mom that we couldn’t spend more on the teacher. They picked up on the fact that my mom, who was working no less than two jobs to support our severely messed up family, was most definitely not in tune with the goings on in the first grade. They saw past the precocious teacher’s pet and found a hurting little girl who was living in a world of alcoholism and abuse from a dad that wasn’t fit to care for a child, and a mom who was working so hard to put food on the table she didn’t have a clue about much of anything that was going on in my life.

Something happened to me in that stupid party, and for years and years of class parties and school events without a parent in sight after that. As seems to be the case with much of my generation, I swung so far in the opposite direction it might have become a littleunbalanced. When my kids entered school, I was present for every single possible moment. I was working part-time, but I made sure that I was always there for every meet the teacher, class party, ice cream social, drop-off-to-pick-up moment. I would break laws to make sure I was one of the first parents to the pick up line and that no child would ever be forgotten or picked up late on my watch. Once I went to work full-time, I made sure Jim was on the same page. I would call him (and still sometimes do, much to his annoyance) to make sure he didn’t get so busy in his day that he lost track of time. When they were in daycare, I was a mess. I was neurotic to the point that I eventually quit working full time and became a work from home mom. The decision wasn’t consciously made because of my issues (Jordan really struggled in daycare,) but I’m pretty sure my neurosis did not help my children in any way. Once I was a full-time mom I volunteered in classrooms, chaperoned field trips, dropped off forgotten items, brought in birthday lunches and cupcakes, provided the BEST teacher gifts for every holiday and teacher appreciation day, did much of the work on science fair projects and on and on and on. I got a little better in middle school, but I still volunteered more than the average parent. And then somewhere along the way, I just got really tired.

More recently than I’d like to admit, I realized that my behavior was just not okay. My kids don’t have the ability to grow if I don’t let them out of this tiny little pot I planted them in. They don’t live in a home where dad is abusive and mom can’t manage to take on any more responsibility. They are nurtured. They have security and stability. They just need more room to grow. Now I fear that my hovering tendencies have done too much damage and they will never leave this nest fully developed. Whenever I want to claw my eyes out in frustration that they seem unable to fully take responsibility for much of anything, I blame myself on a whole new level. Mom-Guilt is the actual freaking worst! Somehow we will all find our way through this, of that I am ultimately determined, but I’ve got to tell you- this really really sucks. Find a balance people. As early as you possibly can- find a freaking balance somewhere between that little girl at the gift exchange and wherever the heck we are right now. 🙂

Like this:

Every year Jimmie and I host an adult only Christmas party full of shenanigans and with a ridiculous theme.

See…shenanigans.

We used to host it at our house. (This pic was at our house during the “Christmas Vacation” themed party. I would never allow myself to wear pants that uncomfortable and, quite frankly, UNFLATTERING out in public- and we won’t even talk about Jimmie.) A few years ago, the party outgrew our house. We wanted to keep up the tradition, and wanted to make it open for our friends to bring their friends, so we created the Annual Christmas Crawl. You guys, this event is quite honestly the best thing you can experience in your life, if you like to have fun. It’s ridiculous on so many levels I can’t even tell you.

What’s a Christmas Crawl, you say? Quite simply, it’s a pub crawl through the most amazing dive bars in our neighboring small town you can imagine, right in the middle of the most stressful time of year. Every bar has a challenge or activity and it’s just seriously the most fun you can have within the law (mostly.) This year’s “guests” topped out at around 60 people when everyone was actually present and accounted for. There was a lot of wandering aimlessly by some people and a few “oh my god, does anyone have eyes on _____” a few more times in the night, so I don’t think we were ever all actually together. Grown ups have a lot of stress around the holidays, and an adult night that isn’t spent with your work people, your family or your kids, tends to get a little bit rowdy.

The beauty of the Christmas Crawl, is that it’s an open invite for anyone and everyone. We start by inviting our friends, and we all but beg them to invite their friends. Like most people our age, we have friends from a lot of different circles of our life. Everyone from family members that we love hanging out with, to friends from our kids’ schools or sports teams to neighbors to the “how did we even meet?!” friends. This means, the friends of friends crowd is even more diverse and eclectic. It’s amazing!

We start the night an awkward group of people that loosely resemble middle-schoolers lined up on the opposite sides of the gym at our first school dance, and end the night with some dude you don’t know nestled in your bosom while your husband holds him up and his wife swears he’s been roofied because this is SO out of character (and it truly is.) It’s truly the most magical time of the year. This year was especially amazing, because around stop number three or four, we just starting adopting people from the bar into our group. We seriously made friends with a guy who Jim and I immediately made our Facebook friend and decided was now part of our family whether he likes it or not. He’s front and center of our group photo from the night, as he should be!(This is just a sample of the group, hopefully small enough to protect the identities of the innocent.)

This year’s theme was holiday/festive pajamas. Jimmie was Olaf and I had some ridiculous winter onesie on. It was…epic. I tried to think of any other word to use because that one is so done, but that’s really all I’ve got. Jimmie in a giant, white, fictional snowman pajama suit can be nothing less than epic. Most of our friends got into the spirit of it all, and those that didn’t were wishing they did by the end of the night (whether they admit it or not.)

EDIT- Jim just read this and demanded I add funny details for everyone to experience…

My favorite part of the night is a little game I like to call drink or dare. It’s full of stupid challenges that intend to 1) break the ice among strangers and 2) embarrass as many people as possible. Some of the challenges are mild: high five every person in the bar, call everyone “Chief” for half an hour and take a selfie with a stranger are a few of my faves. Other challenges are a little silly: every time you laugh pump your arm like Tiger Woods…you get the drift. My personal favorite was “go caroling with a group of friends.” Imagine your family sitting in a cute little pizza place and a group of strange, possibly drunk, men coming around in their pajamas singing Christmas carols. That happened. And here’s a little video of a small part of those events…

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One of our friends was dressed in a Rocky onesie. Everywhere we went he sang the theme song and raised his arms like the champ. Everywhere. And then there was our group Santa Clause. This little outfit is probably illegal in most states.

I’m honestly not sure why the town of puyallup even allows us to keep doing this year after year. We are complete menaces.

Probably the most fun event of the night is the photo scavenger hunt. Here’s a pic of the challenges…

It’s amazing what total strangers will do for you to help you win a stupid scavenger hunt that has no real prize.

I have no other point to make except to tell you that you need this in your life. Start planning it now. Make a reason to get all of your friends together for something like this- or however best fits into your life. It’s the best grown-up part of our holiday season. We walk away amazed at the friendships and love that we have in our life. Wishing you the same joy and love in your holiday season…